


The Warlord's Prize: Three Times the Charm

by Badfish _original porn be warned_ (FishPanda)



Series: The Warlord and His Prince (AKA that orc/elf noncon no one but me wanted) [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Crying During Sex, Forced Orgasm, Hickies, Large Cock, M/M, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Orc/Elf - Freeform, Painful Sex, Rape, Rimming, Size Difference, Size Kink, Weird Biology, maybe fetishization, maybe rapists in love is a good tag for this, probably fantastic racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28161102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FishPanda/pseuds/Badfish%20_original%20porn%20be%20warned_
Summary: Back by popular (see: 1 comment) demand, this is part two, the morning after. After our poor captured elf prince was fucked up the ass with a huge orc dick over his dead father’s throne, he wakes up the next morning to a warlord who is just waiting for him to open his eyes before he shoves that huge orc dick in him again.
Relationships: Orc Warlord/Captured Elf Prince
Series: The Warlord and His Prince (AKA that orc/elf noncon no one but me wanted) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2063046
Comments: 23
Kudos: 140





	The Warlord's Prize: Three Times the Charm

**Author's Note:**

> Please mind the tags – this is absolutely non-consensual on the elf prince’s part.

Llianderin wakes up from sleep only to realize he can’t move. For a brief, blessed moment, he doesn’t know where he is; only that this is not his room at the palace, that his head and throat hurt, and that his body is sore as though he went a full day at the training salle. Then he registers the huge arm slung over him, big palm cupping his hip bone possessively; the massive, muscle-bound body pressed to his back; the enormous erection nestled between his ass cheeks, wet head smearing precum between his thighs as coarse pubic hair tickles the small of his back. 

Memories of the previous night slam back in, causing his body to seize up in terror. His heart starts rabbiting in his chest. Llianderin knows exactly who it is behind him, breathing moistly down his neck. He remembers the battle and his people being killed one by one; he remembers being stripped of the armor denoting his rank and bound like a common criminal and paraded in front of thousands of rabid orcs still dripping elf blood; he remembers that instead of being executed he was stripped naked and forced on his knees and violated in the same halls that for centuries symbolized the divine-given power of the kingdom of Syh Esaryia.

All by the same monster slumbering at his back.

“Awake then, little prince?” 

Llianderin shouts in alarm as the orc behind him suddenly moves, his hand sliding from the elf’s hip to cup his soft genitals and press him backwards tighter. The action forces the orc’s rigid cock even deeper into his cleft, parting the cheeks around it, the musky flesh rubbing against the elf’s now exposed opening as the warlord starts to thrust against him. His second hand, which until now rested above Llianderin’s head, comes down to pinch the elf’s nipples harshly, eliciting more shouts that grow progressively hoarse as the damage from yesterday makes itself known.

“Get off me! Stop touching me!” Llianderin struggles against the hands molesting him, but he might as well be fighting against unmovable stone. 

The orc chuckles, ducking his face into the elf’s hair and taking an exaggerated breath. “You smell so lovely, fiery little prince, and you struggle so beautifully. Yesterday, you screamed for an audience; today, you will scream just for me, and I intend to discovered just what I can wring from your mouth and body.”

Quick enough to leave Llianderin’s head spinning, the orc flings the furs away and positions him on all fours. Any attempts to crawl away are thwarted immediately. A finger pressing lightly at his asshole makes him tense even more and clench down.

“You are so small, I actually find it hard to believe I really fit in here yesterday,” the finger presses in to the first knuckle, the dry stretch burning, and Llianderin feels tears start to prickle at his eyes. “You look positively good enough to eat.”

The finger retreats, but before Llianderin can take a breath a gust of warm air hits his entrance; then what is most decidedly not a finger pushes in and suddenly he cannot get air into his lungs at all. The wet, strong muscle wriggles its way into the tight passage, stroking his walls and filling him up in a completely different way than the orc’s fingers and cock did yesterday. To his complete mortification and even greater alarm, he feels himself start to harden. 

Elves are not a very passionate race. Their long lives – long enough to be considered virtually immortal by the other races – translate into every aspect of their existence. They are slow to age and mature, slow to fall in love, and also slow to love; even bound couples can go years between sexual encounters, the reason why elf children are so few and in between.

To experience arousal for the second time within two days is simply unheard of, for an elf. And yet here Llianderin is, not just getting hard again but getting hard over being violated by an orc, a lowlier lifeform than even a dwarf. Humiliation twists his stomach, makes his eyes well up, and then the tongue starts prodding at his prostate and even more blood rushes to his cock, bringing it to full hardness. His arms give up as his whole body is wracked with tremors at this terrible, wonderful sensation. 

Llianderin has been with many lovers before, male and female both, but none would have conceived of using their mouth there. It’s dirty, and barbaric. He can feel saliva drip down his crack and then down to his balls, and can’t figure out whether he wants to pull away or push back into the hot mouth currently sucking at his rim. So he does neither, simply stays there with his burning, teary face pressed into the furs and his ass high in the air.

He is so concentrated on the sensation and on the pressure gathering in his balls that the hand around his cock comes as a complete surprise, making him jump. A few twists – rough, much rougher than any touch Llianderin ever gave himself – a hot wet mouth wrapping around both balls and sucking, and he comes with a whimper, collapsing into a boneless mess. 

A hand pushes him onto his back. When he cracks his eyes open, still breathing heavily, he sees the orc licking his hand thoughtfully. Despite the shivers still running through him, the calculating look in the warlord’s eyes makes fear spike in his gut, as does the sight of the enormous erection rising out of a nest of wild hair and curving against dark abs. Llianderin clenches his thighs together. The warlord smirks. 

“That was a nice little snack to start the morning,” the orc says, settling on his knees on the bed. Quick as a snake, one hand grabs Llianderin’s ankles and drags him into his lap, ignoring the way the elf drags half the covers with him in a futile attempt to resist. Positioning the elf’s backside against his thighs, he bends him until his knees nearly touch his ears. 

“The day is still young, though. I think we can manage at least two more.”

*********

Naz’ul knows the exact moment the elf comes awake by the way the delicate body in his arms goes rigid. He himself has been awake for at least half an hour, but, unusually, has been content to delay satisfying his morning stiffness until the elf regained consciousness. He has never before enjoyed just touching someone outside of a sexual act, but as he smooths his palm down narrow ribcage and skinny thighs, as he breathes in the flowery fragrance coming off the silky skin, he discovers a new, less fiery kind of pleasure.

Last night, the elf was beautiful in his terror, and the way he struggled and screamed as Naz’ul breached him, thrashed on his cock like a hooked fish, was perfection. The warlord is looking forward to a repeat performance this morning. But as he looks down at the elf’s bewitching face, tempting mouth gentled in sleep and luminous eyes hidden by long pale lashes, he finds there is a different kind of allure in seeing him so calm in his arms.

Once the elf is awake, he is immediately terrified again. Naz’ul doesn’t know whether that fear is why he finds the elf soft when he reaches between his legs, or whether it is a difference of species; orcs are practically insatiable sexually once their bodies mature, even outside of their rut seasons, and arousal is a rather natural condition broken only by brief periods of respite following ejaculation. He knows it is not the same for humans, though, so perhaps elves are different as well.

Still, yesterday has proven that for this elf, at least, fear and arousal were not mutually exclusive.

Even so, Naz’ul is surprised, and smug, at the elf’s enthusiastic response to his tongue. He chose to start with this act mainly to answer his own curiosity – the elf does taste just as good as he smells – but the way his little ass quivers around Naz’ul’s questing tongue, the way he collapses into a trembling, dazed heap and just takes it – is so much more gratifying for Naz’ul himself than he could have imagined. A few touches to his slender cock, a few licks over his hairless, diminutive balls, and he spurts a curiously small amount into the orc’s hand.

Yesterday, Naz’ul didn’t really have the leisure to look at the elf, after. Now he notes the way his chest heaves, rosy nipples still peaked. The jumping muscles in his slender thighs. The stain of color in his cheeks. The glimpses of tongue between chewed lips as he pants. The way his wet lashes clump together into little spikes, tears still visible at the corners of his eyes.

The elf’s spend is glistening on his hand. Unlike the opaque thickness of orc semen, it is textured almost like water, with a slight pearly sheen. On Naz’ul’s tongue, it tastes only faintly of salt, somewhat like the smell of the earth after rain, and mostly of oranges. He licks his fingers clean, and already wants to taste it again.

The elf rouses from his stupor when he is dragged into Naz’ul’s lap, squirming and whimpering delightfully as he’s folded in half. His spit-covered pucker swallows two fingers easily, relaxed from the thorough tonguing it received. His objections grow louder when the orc starts rubbing at his prostate.

“I can’t!” the elf protests, trying to twist away, arms and shoulders straining as he grabs the covers for leverage. “I can’t again!”

“Of course you can,” Naz’ul assures him. As the minutes pass, however, the elf shows no signs of renewed arousal, his cock flopping flaccid on his stomach even as he grows increasingly agitated and teary. 

The warlord pauses his movements, gazing thoughtfully at the prince. Perhaps he really can’t; perhaps his body really is made differently. Or maybe, Naz’ul just needs to up the stimulation. Yesterday, the elf came only after being speared on his cock, with his hip bones being ground painfully into the hard edge of the throne and Naz’ul’s hand pulling harshly at his genitals.

Mind made, he pushes in a third finger dry, earning a weak scream; when he curls his fingers to scratch lightly at the inner gland instead of just pressing against it, the elf’s body gives a promising jolt. He bends down to bite and suck on the tender flesh of his inner thighs, careful not to draw blood but hard enough to make dark bruises bloom to life on the pale skin. Slowly, the elf starts to harden again, balls drawing closer to his body, cock growing rosy and rigid despite his gasped denials. 

When Naz’ul finally spies wetness gleaming at the tip, he leaves the elf’s thighs alone; the skin there is now mottled red with marks, some already starting to purple. Instead, he closes his mouth around the elf’s velvety cock and sucks. The elf’s thighs close around his head as he shouts and twists, back curving as though he’s trying to get away even as his legs trap the orc’s head in place. Sweet liquid floods his mouth, barely a mouthful, and he swallows and swirls his tongue around the softening flesh. The thighs around his head part, and a moment later weak hands attempt to push his head away.

Naz’ul lifts his head. The elf looks completely wrecked. He has one thin arm thrown over his eyes, but underneath his face is red and wet; small sobs still wrack his chest, his entire frame trembling. His silvery hair, though still shimmering in the low light, is a knotted mess around his head.

Naz’ul runs his fingers through the soft strands gently. “You did well, little prince. So well.” With his other hand he grasps for the oil, slicking himself generously and wiping the excess on the covers. Seating down again, he gathers the exhausted elf against his chest, one arm wrapping tightly around the bruised thighs; the elf’s head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes closed. With his other hand stabilizing his cock, he starts to lower the elf down.

As soon as the head pushes against the elf’s entrance, he starts struggling again, albeit weakly. His wide eyes, their forget-me-not hue almost hidden by blown pupils, are panicked. Fingernails bite ineffectively at the arm pressing him down. 

“Stop,” he begs wetly. “no more. No more.”

An agonized moan leaves the elf’s lips as Naz’ul’s cock penetrates him slowly but steadily, his back arching as his fingers dig in and the toes of his feet clench tight. Time seems to slow. Finally, he is fully seated on Naz’ul’s unyielding length, and both orc and elf let out a breath, the former satisfied, the latter whimpering. Naz’ul lets the elf’s thighs go; his coltish legs splay at awkward angles over the orc’s own.

Grasping at the elf’s waist, Naz’ul starts thrusting up into him, slow at first but quickly picking up the pace. Soon the smack of flesh on flesh and the elf’s hiccupping sobs are the only sounds in the room. As he settles into a rhythm, the warlord starts exploring the body bouncing on him again. He spends some time twisting and pinching the elf’s little nipples, until they are swollen and sore; at every twist, the walls around his cock constrict briefly, the elf’s thighs making an aborted twitch as though seeking to clench together. A tug on the silvery thatch at his groin makes the elf shout; rolling his velvety balls between his fingers earns Naz’ul drumming heels against his shins.

But the most incredible discovery he makes is accidental. He trails his hand up the elf’s tense torso, caressing the taut muscles of his neck and feeling his convulsive swallows. Strokes his fingers along the razor-sharp jaw, pushes two fingers into the elf’s panting mouth and is immediately bitten with adorably dull teeth. He thumbs at the elf’s sculpted cheekbone. And then, on a whim, he caresses the tip of one of the elf’s pointed ears.

The elf’s entire body spasms, his ass clenching down on Naz’ul cock like a vice as his eyes roll back in his head. Slowly, astonishingly, the elf’s cock begins to fill for the third time.

Delighted with his new discovery, Naz’ul picks up the pace again, changing his angle to aim for the elf’s prostate with each thrust. His other hand stays on the pointed ear, rolling the tip between his fingers, petting up and down the delicate ridge. Each touch makes the elf shiver so hard it seems like he is about to come apart in Naz’ul’s arms.

The elf has yet to come when his own completion catches up to him. He shoves in as deep as he can go, holding the elf bruisingly tight as he pumps him full of hot, thick seed. His orgasm lasts several minutes; when he comes back down, the elf is whimpering, panting wetly against Naz’ul’s neck, asshole twitching against the cock still lodged within him.

If Naz’ul remains inside for a little while longer, he would grow hard again and be ready for a second round. But he has a feeling his elf is already at the end of his rope for today, and would be down for the count as soon as he came. Reaching between the elf’s legs, he twists his fingers around the head and presses his nail into the weeping slit at the same time he slides his tongue into the elf’s ear; a full-body seizure and the elf collapsed against him, motionless, cock softening after leaving its gift in Naz’ul’s palm.

Carefully, Naz’ul lifts the elf off, shushing him as he moans in discomfort at the feeling of the withdrawing cock pulling at his swollen rim. Semen starts to trickle sluggishly out of his loosened hole as soon as he is empty. He is indeed almost unconscious, letting the warlord arrange him like a doll and not putting up even a token struggle as his thighs and ass are cleaned with a wet cloth. 

After tucking the sleeping elf back between the covers to keep him warm, Naz’ul dresses and buckles on his greatsword. With one last look at the gleaming head barely visible above the furs, he exists the tent, trusting the guards positions outside to keep his prize safe.

*********

Llianderin wakes up for the second time that day to the feeling of someone brushing his hair. Trying to roll over turns out to be a mistake; his entire body feels like one big, exhausted bruise. He hears a chuckle, and then large hands pluck him gently out of the covers, sitting him back against a broad chest.

“Sorry to wake you, little prince, but we move out in less than an hour, and this tent needs to be packed up. I brought you something to eat.”

Llianderin notices a few bowls on a tray near him. Trying to muster up the strength to actually move an arm and reach for it, his minds jumps back to the strange sensation he felt when he woke up.

“Were you brushing my hair?” he murmurs sleepily. It’s an absurd, unreal question to ask, but it is an absurd, unreal situation he has found himself in.

“Yes,” the orc answers gruffly. A few seconds letter, the brush starts to move through Llianderin’s hair again. He’s surprisingly careful. “You have beautiful hair,” the orc adds, less curtly, “it will be a shame if it got knotted. A braid will keep it from getting tangled again from the wind during the ride. Now eat.”

Llianderin twitches a finger towards the tray. The orc sighs and reaches with his much longer arm, dragging it close. He starts braiding the elf’s hair as Llianderin inspects the bowls. One bowl has a few pieces of fruit, both fresh and dried, while another seems to hold a cooked dish of mushrooms and potatoes; those two he takes. The third bowl, which contains some sort of half-charred meat, he leaves on the tray.

He eats slowly, wincing as he swallows; the orc seems content to let him eat at his own pace, smoothing his hands up and down Llianderin’s sides and shoulders. At last he finishes, pushing the tray away.

The orc bends over his shoulder to frown at him. “You didn’t finish. You should eat all of it; we’re not stopping again until late at night.”

Llianderin pushes the tray away further. “Elves don’t eat meat.”

The tray is pulled closer again, the orc attempting to hand him the bowl. “I don’t care what you’re used to eating; this is what you get, and the sooner you stop being delicate, the easier it will be for you.”

It’s a silly argument. Llianderin is still scared stiff of the warlord, who is gentle to him one minute and hurts him with complete disregard for his pain the next. He knows the orc will continue to hurt him, that his kind do not possess a single shred of kindness or empathy, but at this moment, arguing over a bowl of food, Llianderin finds enough courage to stand his ground.

“When I say elves don’t eat meat, I mean it. Elves can’t digest anything that comes from a live creature, be it meat or milk or eggs; the only exception is honey. So unless you want me to spend the next day being sick all over you, I am not eating this.”

Orc faces are not very suited to expressing any feeling beyond hate or anger or bloodlust, but befuddlement is surprisingly easy to read even on such a savage face. Those yellow eyes stare at him narrowly. “Anything? What do you even eat then?”

Were he in even slightly less agony, Llianderin would have thrown up his hands. As it is, he rolls his eyes and even that hurts. “Literally anything else. Fruits, vegetables, nuts, fungi. Leafy greens. Legumes. Anything that doesn’t come from something that moos, bleats, or clucks.”

There’s a very strange expression on the orc’s face. Llianderin can see cogs turning behind his scowl. Eventually he gives a brief nod. “No wonder elves are shaped like twigs. Fine. I’ll let the quartermaster know. We’ll figure something out.” He stands up abruptly and takes a few steps to one corner of the tent, picking up something and throwing it at the elf. Llianderin’s arms refuse to obey, and the bundled fabric hits him in the face. He looks down; it’s a green silk tunic. Not one of his own.

“Get dressed,” the orc orders.

“Where is the rest?” the tunic would hit mid-thigh at most. 

“There is no rest. This is what you get.”

Clenching his teeth against the renewed sting in his eyes, Llianderin attempts to pull on the garment. He can’t manage to lift his arms high enough. His eyes start to well up.

Gentle hands take the tunic from him, helping him lift his arms slowly and slip it over his head, smoothing it down his torso softly. When the orc helps him stand up, he finds it just barely covers his genitals. He sucks in a shocked breath at the sight of his bruised thighs and knees; no wonder everything is so sore.

The orc passes a critical eye over him, dissatisfaction twisting his mouth. He grabs some furs from the bed and wraps them tightly around Llianderin, nodding to himself before gathering him up in his arms and striding out of the tent. After so many hours is semi-darkness, the light blinds Llianderin eyes. He closes them.

**Author's Note:**

> I am taking all kinds of artistic license with anatomy here! Elves are apparently biologically vegan, almost impotent, and have come that tastes like oranges. And their ears are like their nipples, only on their heads. Orcs are perpetually horny fuck machines. Who even knows anymore, it works for the story. If you caught that reference to an orc rut, it’s because I’m keeping my options open for a knotting fic later on, not promising anything though.
> 
> I’d love to hear your comments/thoughts/kinks! Is this working for you? Is this just 3,500 words of terribly written noncon? Is my elf too weepy? Is my orc warlord giving off a “silence of the lambs” vibe with his repeated thoughts about his elf’s smooth smooth skin? 
> 
> If the answer to all that is “yeah, pretty much, but I’d still read the next part” then stay tuned. I actually wrote the third part before this one (idk why my brain likes to make things difficult for me) so I’ll probably publish it in a few days. Hint: it features object insertion, edging, and what could probably be classified as sexual torture? Maybe. My warlord doesn’t really understand how elf orgasms work. Not sure I do either.


End file.
